


Fearson's floating cigarette.

by orange_crushed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Magician AU, Street & Stage Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That son of a bitch," Dean says. He strangles the handful of french fries he’s been holding, and one by one their warm, helpless, potato-y insides crumble over the tops of his fingers. He feels a brief burst of irrational, almost homicidal rage. "That floppy bow-tie wearing son of a <i>bitch</i>.” Dean is gonna kill Jimmy Wonderman. He’s gonna shove a never-ending string of scarves down his throat. He’s gonna make him eat balloon animals until he floats off into space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"They did _what_?” Dean hisses, through a mouthful of hamburger. He’s sitting in his living room, eating lunch off the coffee table, staring down at his speakerphone in confusion. “I thought that was locked down.” On the other end of the call, he can hear Charlie’s long-suffering sigh.

"I told you they might do this. They wanted to go with somebody family-friendly." 

"That son of a bitch," Dean says. He strangles the handful of french fries he’s been holding, and one by one their warm, helpless, potato-y insides crumble over the tops of his fingers. He feels a brief burst of irrational, almost homicidal rage. "That floppy bow-tie wearing son of a _bitch_.” Dean is gonna kill Jimmy Wonderman. He’s gonna shove a never-ending string of scarves down his throat. He’s gonna make him eat balloon animals until he floats off into space.

"Dean," Charlie says. "Chill. I booked you something better."

"Oh yeah?" Dean perks up, takes another bite of his burger, chews it thoughtfully. "Cool." Charlie tells him about the spring break thing, a live taping. It does sound good, and it’ll do more to get Dean’s name out there than the festival that just turned him down. He feels the anger draining away, but it still smarts a little. It’s not the first time he’s come up in competition with this guy and Dean can’t help but feel kind of irritated that somebody who wears glittery vests and still works with fucking rabbits- _rabbits_ , for Christ’s sake- somehow keeps getting handed gigs. Charlie says she’ll email him the contract and they’ll look it over together on Wednesday, and then she hangs up, leaving Dean to finish eating alone in the quiet of his apartment. He crushes the greasy wrappers into a ball and lobs them at the wall; they bounce off, onto the side of the cabinet, and land into his open garbage can perfectly. He’s done it a thousand times, but this time it doesn’t make him smile. 

That weird unsettled feeling follows him around all week, even to his Friday gig at Showcase, which usually pumps him up. He likes being there, likes hanging around backstage with Benny and Andrea, and even that fucking obnoxious MC Gabe, who slaps everybody on the ass and calls them ‘kid’ even though he’s four fucking feet tall and mature as a coked-up squirrel. Showcase was the place he dreamed of being back when he was lifting wallets and pulling cards from his jacket sleeves out on the boulevard, and even though the place is a lot shabbier than it was when he was a kid, it’s still fucking awesome to go out there under the lights, it still hits him sometimes that he’s made it, kind of, that he’s not a hustler anymore but a professional, that at least within these walls he’s somebody instead of nobody. But tonight he doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel home. He stands and watches Benny and Andrea go through their warm-up routine, smiling at each other like the ol’ married folks they are, holding hands when they bow and glide off. That, too, usually puts a smile on his face. But nothing can budge his frown right now: at least nothing short of stage lights. He plasters on a cocky grin for the crowd and makes it through his routine, getting a few surprised laughs and plenty of shocked gasps and even a couple of appreciative whistles in the right places. Being out there, doing what he’s best at, actually calms him down a little, and by the time he’s back in the hallway backstage, drinking a bottle of water and mentally running himself through a couple of marks that he missed, he actually feels pretty normal, pretty okay.

Somebody taps him on the shoulder. Dean turns and then freezes, face to face with Jimmy Wonderman. Jesus, his eyes are bluer in person. For a second, Dean feels stunned.

"Hi," the guy says to him, friendly, like he has no idea that Dean’s fantasized about ripping his posters down at the civic center. "I’m-"

"I know who you are," Dean blurts out, and Jimmy’s face does this weird thing where it holds totally still for a beat, and then blanks, wipes itself clean like a reset button. Dean doesn’t know the guy, but for a second he thinks he could see hurt there, embarrassment. It doesn’t feel good to have done that after all, no matter how Dean feels about his shitty, goofy vests. "Uh," Dean says. "Sorry." He offers his hand to shake. "I mean, I know your work." Jimmy takes his hand and shakes it, smiling faintly. 

"I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your act," Jimmy says. "It’s the first time we’ve shared a bill, but not the first time I’ve seen you per-"

"Wait," Dean says, and Jimmy cuts himself off, mouth still parted on his last word. "Shared a what?" Dean glances around, trying to see if there’s a schedule posted nearby. "You’re not on tonight. It’s some guy called-"

"Castiel," he says. Weirdly, he looks caught. Almost shy, to have shared that. It takes Dean a second to realize why. "It’s my real name." Dean looks down at him: there’s no spangly vest or bow tie, no sign of a top hat or any of the other shit from the promo photos Dean’s seen a million times. Jimmy- _Castiel_ \- is just wearing a plain dark suit and a pale shirt open at the collar, boring and average-looking clothes, like he’s going to perform tax magic. Dean feels a swell of confusion, almost overwhelming, like being slapped in the face by the tide.

"Did I-" he says, trying to put one of many stray thoughts into some kind of order. "Did I just open for _Jimmy Wonderman_?” he asks himself, aloud. It was the wrong thing to say, and he knows it as soon as Castiel’s face crumples and then hardens again, and his shoulders tighten a little, and he gives Dean a strangely disappointed frown. “Well,” Dean says, knee-deep in the hole he just dug himself. “Good luck out there.”

"Thank you," says Castiel, stiffly, and retreats in the direction of the stage.

Dean leans against the wall and puts a hand over his face. Christ. Being a dick to a children’s magician is a new low, even for a guy who used to run credit card scams. As penance he tells himself he’s going to watch the act. He’s going to sit there and clap with enthusiasm for every flapping dove and hoop trick the guy can pull out. If Castiel decides he wants an audience volunteer to saw in half, Dean’s going to put his hand up. He’s going to endure the indignity of rabbit-based magic tonight, humbled and repentant, the way some people do the rosary. Dean slips into the big room and gets himself a seat to the side of the stage, out of sight, because he doesn’t want Castiel to think he’s there to heckle him, throw him off. He just wants to do his guilty time and get out of there feeling like he’s not a complete trash bag. Dean gets a drink from the waitress with one of his comp tickets and then the lights come up and Castiel comes out, alone.

And shit starts to happen. Castiel goes through a few tricks, basic sleight of hand things, but so beautifully done that Dean finds himself holding his breath in a few places. Castiel’s hands are quick, graceful, ridiculously sure. His gestures are smooth and natural and the way he talks the audience through it, with this warm, rumbling, self-deprecating patter is a fucking art in itself. He makes Dean laugh. He makes everybody laugh. And sigh with delight when the trick works just as it’s supposed to. There’s no _bam_ factor here, no shock. It’s one of the simplest and most old-fashioned routines Dean’s ever seen, but it’s being executed with a kind of effortless perfection that is blowing his mind. 

And then he closes with a strangely eerie, almost ethereal version of Harry Blackstone’s fucking floating light bulb and the crowd goes absolutely fucking nuts. Castiel bows and exits without much fanfare, and Dean sits in his seat for a long time, recalibrating. 

Dean goes to find Castiel backstage and finds him chatting happily with Benny and Andrea, shaking their hands, thanking them for a wonderful opportunity, saying how appreciative he is of their technical setup and how they made everything run so smoothly. Dean waits and doesn’t try to interrupt. He catches Benny’s eye and tries telepathy. No dice, but after a minute, Benny smiles and draws Andrea away, says they’ve got some stuff to wrap up, hopes they can bring Castiel back sometime soon. They walk away and Castiel turns around and sees Dean, and Dean watches his face go from glowing to shuttered again, like he just dropped a bushel basket over some internal candle. Who could blame the guy.

"I’m a dick," Dean says. Castiel stares at him. "I’m really sorry. Can I start over?" He holds his hand out to Castiel and Castiel looks at it, then back up at Dean, eyes alight again, some private pleasure animating the genuine smile he produces.

"Yes," Castiel says. "Yes, of course." He shakes Dean’s hand and his grip is perfect. He clasps both hands around Dean’s for a second, gentle but firm, and then lets him go. "I’m very pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," says Dean.

It feels like a start.

 

 

.


	2. Chapter 2

The spring break video goes viral and suddenly Dean's all over the internet and even on a couple of pop culture round-up tv shows, shirtless and underwater in his shark tank. He can't take all the credit for that one: Charlie's fucking psychic about this stuff, she knows just who to email and tweet, she's the reason he stopped working the boardwalk to begin with, helping him make videos and get legit paying gigs, a couple of tours. A card trick she filmed went big for him two years ago, it got him on a talent showcase, and the videos for that are still gaining hits on youtube. This time Charlie calls him and screams " _MAGICJAM_ ," into the phone. Dean holds it away from his ear and then asks her what the fuck she's talking about. "MAGICjam," she repeats, breathlessly, and then he gets it. Criss Angel. Armando Vera. _Vegas_.

"Holy fuck," says Dean.

"Holy fuck is right," says Charlie. "They want you to go out and do the tank stunt for the producers. Two weeks from today. _Dean_ ," she says, and he can pretty much hear that she's dancing around the room right now. "They're gonna love you." 

The next few days are a whirlwind, planning to get him and his equipment out there as cheaply and efficiently as possible, seeing if they can get him any other auditions. Charlie even books him a gig off the strip so he can work a little while he's there, get his mind off the pressure and make a bit of the trip money back. Sam is super psyched and keeps texting Dean like a billion emoji thumbs up; he's always posting Dean's videos to his facebook wall and making his college friends watch them and like them on youtube. It would be embarrassing if it didn't make Dean so fucking happy. Dean's set to leave on Monday, the trailer's rented and Charlie promises she's gonna be there bright and early, ready to road-trip. But on Sunday afternoon his phone rings with a number he doesn't recognize. It's Castiel.

"Hey," Dean says. "What's up?"

"I wanted to congratulate you," Castiel says, super formal and professional, the nerd. Dean's seen him one other time since that night at Showcase, at a trade show, and he was wearing a suit then, too. He'd given Dean a really nice business card of his, and feeling obligated, Dean had written his number onto a napkin and handed it over. By comparison Castiel kinda makes Dean feel like the human equivalent of casual Friday. "On your video."

"Oh," Dean says. "Yeah. Thanks. It was, uh. It went pretty good."

"A million hits is more than pretty good," Castiel says. Dean thinks he can hear a smirk.

"Alright," Dean says. "It went fucking awesome." Castiel laughs. "Actually, I'm- hey, don't tell this to anybody," Dean blurts, wondering why the fuck he would admit this to a professional rival, a guy he barely knows. It seems to be coming out of his mouth regardless of the possible consequences. "But I got an audition for MAGICjam."

"Dean," Castiel breathes, clearly surprised, even sounding- happy. Pleased. "That's wonderful."

"Thanks," says Dean.

"You must be busy," Castiel says. "Don't let me keep you."

"No, it's cool. I don't leave until tomorrow." Dean looks around his apartment, at the suitcase already sitting by the door, his empty fridge and a stack of DVDs he's already watched. "I'm not doing anything right now."

"Oh," says Castiel.

"Do you," Dean says, and almost stops there because it's so dumb, it's so ridiculous that such a simple question would make him nervous. But he forges on anyway. "You want to hang out? It's gotta be an early night for me, but I was just gonna call for a pizza, and if you wanted-"

"Yes," says Castiel. "Yes, I'd like that."

So this is how Dean ends up with Jimmy Wonderman sitting on his sofa at four-thirty in the afternoon, nursing a beer and smiling cheerfully at Dean like Dean made his day by inviting him over for take-out. Dean stands in the doorway to the kitchen, pretending like he's looking over delivery menus, but really feeling like a fucking idiot: he has no idea what to say to this guy now that he's here. Being in the same room with him reminds Dean vividly that a.) they're practically strangers, and b.) Castiel is way hotter than his cheesy promotional photos. Thankfully, Castiel keeps asking polite questions, which allows Dean to just react, either answering or deflecting. "Is this your brother?" Castiel asks, leaning over to look at a photo of Sam in his high school graduation gown. 

"Yup." Dean uncaps a beer of his own. "He's even taller now, if you believe that. You got any family?"

"No," says Castiel. It's so final, so flat, that Dean leaves it alone. That's the kind of button he personally knows not to push. Dean asks him about other stuff instead, neutral junk like music and movies instead, and feels a flood of genuine horror when Castiel admits he's never seen any of the movies on Dean's coffee table.

"Jesus Christ," Dean says. "Not even _Young Frankenstein_?" So he puts it in and they watch and eat the pizza when it comes and Dean gets to privately, greedily, inexplicably relish the sound of Castiel's genuine, belly-deep laugh at the repetition of the fucking horse whinny joke. When they're done Dean takes the plates into the kitchen and washes them while Castiel stands in the doorway and talks a little about a community festival he's been booked for. Dean listens and finally he leans his wet hands against the sink and looks sideways at Castiel. "No offense," Dean says, gently, "but I don't get you at all."

"What part?" Castiel says, like that's not a new question for him. That makes Dean frown.

"The balloon stuff. The rabbits, the fucking- the vests, man, I'm sorry, but the vests. You're better than that. Fuck, you're better than me. You're incredible. I _saw_ you out there. You could be in Vegas doing close-up shows, making bank. I don't know why you waste your time with birthday parties."

"I don't think of it as wasted time," Castiel says. He doesn't raise his voice but his face gets tight, his eyes narrow down a little. "It's my life."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says. "Forget it. I'm sorry." Castiel looks away, into the living room, out the giant window that Dean stares out of every day. His face is still rigidly placid. "Cas," Dean says, sighing, and Castiel looks back at him, eyes widened. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Castiel says. "You're not wrong. You're just- you're not right, either," he adds, slyly, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, and Dean laughs.

"Wow," Dean says. "Family-friendly burn."

Castiel laughs too, and they drink another beer together and then Castiel goes home, leaves Dean to get ready for tomorrow. Dean packs up the rest of his toiletries and prints out directions to their hotel and then crawls into bed early, lies awake for a while running over scenarios in his head, openers for his auditions. He tries not to get worked up about it, to worry himself in circles. He tries to think about something else, something good. Driving with the windows rolled down, warm spring weather. The sun over the ocean. Getting enough money to take Sam on vacation somewhere, to buy Charlie a better camera rig. Real applause. Castiel smiling at him across the sofa, a slice of pizza lifted halfway up to his mouth.

That last one is new, but it works like a charm. Dean falls asleep curled onto his side, still holding that image in his head, even though it's kind of mortifying in the morning to remember.

He doesn't think about Castiel much on the road, or in the lead-up to the audition. It's only backstage as he's fiddling with his phone that a text comes in. Dean expects another string of thumbs and smiley faces from Sam but this time it's Castiel. He can imagine it in Castiel's serious, gravelly voice. _Do your best, and be confident. You have a wonderful gift._ And then, after that touching and frankly embarrassing (to Dean) message, there's a fucking emoji of a tiny pink horse. It's the most baffling thing Dean's ever seen in his life. Dean stares at it for a while trying to make sense of it, and then another text comes in: _I'm sorry. I hope the horse made sense. Frau Blucher._

Dean laughs so hard he cries and they've got to put a little more powder on him before he goes out under the lights, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is he kicks that audition's fucking ass.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's booked on MAGICjam for three solid months, rotating every other night with a escapologist-contortionist from the Midwest, and the second Charlie says her name Dean's face splits in a grin. When he gets to rehearsal for the first time he finds her at the edge of the stage, making notes on her safety packet, sitting with one leg bent at an impossible angle like a cricket's back limbs. Her hair's blue this time, but other than that, she looks the same.

"Lisa," he calls, and she looks up, and then squeals and unfolds herself and launches up into his arms. Dean swings her around and after breakfast and coffee they sit there together going through the paperwork and getting a crew tour of the stage. He's so fucking thrilled that she's here, a friendly and familiar face in the midst of the incredible pressure of the biggest gig of his life. She's even got photos of Ben with her on her phone, and she lets him flip through them and make awed faces at how goddamn tall he's getting. 

They used to sleep together whenever they crossed paths, back when Ben was a toddler and she was on the road with Cirque a million days a year; she used to cry in Dean's arms about missing her baby, waiting back home with her mom. And meanwhile Dean's life had been a big bag of garbage and John had just died and it sure had been nice, having somebody to curl up against in motel beds once every couple of months, somebody to talk to who didn't judge you, who was always happy to see you but who wasn't going home with you back to your shitty life and tiny apartment. It stopped when Lisa fell for and married her new agent, a short little bearded dude who worships the ground she and Ben walk on. Dean couldn't be happier for them, all of them. Even if it does remind him that he's still flying solo. At lunchtime Lisa asks about Sam and other folks they both know: Benny and Andrea, the Magnificent Harvelles, a couple of friends who quit show-biz and work in Chicago now. And for some reason Dean just can't keep his mouth shut, he finds himself sitting there and running his mouth about Castiel, about making friends with a guy whose dorky, tiny, eco-friendly car actually has a big top hat and rabbit screened onto the side of it. 

" _Jimmy Wonderman_?" Lisa hisses, across the table. She stabs her fork into her salad and stares at him, incredulous, bordering on hilarity. "You told me you wanted to murder him and bury his body in a ball pit."

"That was before," Dean says, weakly. Lisa puts a hand against her face, but can't quite stifle a bubbling laugh. "Hey, come on. First impressions. When you met David you called him a gnome."

"He is a gnome," Lisa says, and pops a cherry tomato into her mouth. She smiles sweetly, sort of sappily. "He's my little gnome."

"Gross," Dean says. "Jesus."

Time flies when he's working every other night, spending the rest of the time managing his calendar with Charlie. There are other appearances on his days off, a couple of local tv programs and, suddenly, a future MTV special to film over the summer. He's going to be one of four "up and coming" magicians on a two-hour reality program, filming the prep and planning for a show and then doing it live. It's a lot of paperwork and Charlie going back and forth with their reps and sending Dean updates and asking for his feedback on the technical riders. During the day it all seems so awesome, overwhelming but good, like getting momentum, coasting down a mountainside with the wind in his face. But sometimes Dean lies awake at night and wonders who the fuck this is all happening to, because it can't be him. If anybody ever realizes what a nothing he is- the empty place in the middle where a person ought to be, where Dean's just filled with worry and doubt and a mess of fucking stupid thoughts- it'll all fall apart. He tries to shove those things down and work harder, because he can't let Charlie down, not after she got him this far. He can't disappoint Sam.

He doesn't interact much with the other big names in the show: a couple of them make a point to hang around with the openers, to get a drink now and then, but mostly they stick to their own permanent dressing rooms. Dean doesn't mind. He makes friends with the other new faces, including a perpetually nervous-looking mentalist named Chuck who is either really, really good at guessing, or an actual fucking psychic. They all get together one night and make Chuck read them as a joke, but he's just too good at it, and a couple of people lose their tempers. Dean sticks up for him, because it's pretty obvious that Chuck's ability to read social cues is matched by an inability to perform them. Of course Chuck repays the favor by getting drunk and blurting out to Dean that he's so sorry Dean's mom died so young. "No offense," Dean says, patting Chuck's back while Chuck dry-heaves into a hotel toilet. "But shut the fuck up about that."

Sometimes Dean gets a text from Castiel in the middle of the afternoon, boring neutral things like _hope you're well_ that manage to make Dean's face flush despite their simplicity. And sometimes Castiel snaps pictures of balloon animals and sends them, probably because he knows it'll annoy him. Dean sends him rambling texts about backstage shenanigans and the couple of super insistent fans he seems to have gained somewhere along the way. Dean got a gift bag with good whiskey and a pair of somebody's frilly underpants left for him at the stage door, and he jokes to Castiel that he knows now he's finally arrived. 

_My fans usually give me crayon drawings_ , Castiel texts, and then he sends Dean a picture of the front of his refrigerator, covered in them. Dean stares at them for a long time, tiny intricate scrawls of a blurry man in a floppy bow tie made by a dozen different children. They are unmistakably adoring, made with such blatant and unselfconscious love that they make Dean's heart ache, for no real reason at all. Dean can't believe he spent so many years shitting on this kind of magic, on the kind of people who would devote themselves to it.

Three months isn't very long at all, and all too soon they're packing up and he's hugging Lisa goodbye and driving back home to his apartment with a dozen new and useful contacts in his phone. Dean just goes straight home and sleeps like a dead man for almost two days and then Sam shows up at his door with a grocery bag, eight feet tall but grinning like the little kid Dean remembers. Dean wraps his arms around him and hugs him until neither of them can breathe, and then he lets Sam pad around his apartment and complain about Dean's lifestyle.

"I knew it," Sam says, in front of Dean's open refrigerator. "This is a tragedy."

"I forgot some stuff," Dean shrugs. Sam holds out a fuzz-filled tupperware container like it's one of the disease samples from _The Andromeda Strain_.

"Uh-huh," he says. Sam worries about his eating habits, Sam brought him milk and eggs and healthy cereal and yogurt and some gross green smoothie shit that he swears Dean's supposed to drink, not flush straight down the toilet. "Jess swears by it," Sam says, and then turns beet red. Dean corners him by the stove and points a finger straight into his face, because he is mature and responsible and sensitive.

"Who," Dean says, "is _Jess_?"

So, even Dean's baby brother is in love, has found somebody who adores all nine hundred feet of Sam and all eighty yards of Sam's hair. Dean insists on meeting her sometime, and Sam perks up, suggests they have a welcome-home bash for Dean, invite some people over to celebrate his successes. Dean's not sure he's exactly earned that, but Sam's already rolling with the idea, and it _would_ be cool to get everyone together. Sam has lunch with him and looks over his calendar and they pick a Saturday a couple weeks away, and that's that.

Dean invites Castiel, and Castiel says he'll absolutely be there, says he wouldn't miss it. _I look forward to celebrating with you_ , Castiel texts, and Dean holds his phone to his chest tenderly, like it's a baby bird, and wonders if he's losing his mind.

The party is awesome. Benny lets them have the upstairs room at Showcase, so it's a big room filled with everybody Dean knows in town. This turns out to be more people than he expected: Sam brings Jess and Benny and Andrea's whole enormous family shows up, Jo actually comes in from New York as a surprise, Charlie brings her partner and a couple of mutual friends, and the list goes on and on and on. Dean is a little bowled over by the attention, people hugging him and slapping his back and getting him drink after drink after drink, talking about how excited they are for the special, how Dean's got so many wonderful things ahead of him. Dean keeps thanking them and nodding and drinking and trying not to feel overwhelmed. After a while he spots Castiel by the fire exit, holding a beer. He sees Dean and waves and Dean makes his way through the little crowd, stopping to get a pat or a couple of words from his friends. And then he's over by the wall, standing next to Castiel. They smile at each other and try to talk- the music's pretty loud- and Dean sees that Castiel's fiddling with the label on his bottle, peeling it down and rolling it, like he's a little bit nervous. It's just a minor detail, a blip in Castiel's cool, but Dean can't un-see it. It makes him feel strangely euphoric, like he's not the only one freaking out a little, here. It makes Dean brave. "Hey," he says, leaning in. Castiel's eyes flare out for a second when Dean gets closer to him; his lips part a tiny fraction. "Come with me?" 

Castiel nods and Dean leads them out the side door, through the hallway. He's been working here on and off- first as a busboy, then a door guy, etcetera- since he was sixteen, and he knows the building like the back of his hand. There's an alcove tucked in the wall that used to hide a drinking fountain, when the building was a vaudeville theater a billion years ago. Dean slides into it and watches Castiel, tries to figure out what he's going to do. Dean doesn't know if he's wrong about this, about Castiel: about what they could be. But this is the only way he's ever learned anything important, by jumping, and seeing what happens when he lands.

And then Castiel slides in beside him and closes the distance between them and Dean's grabbing for him, pulling him in tight, curling his hands in Castiel's hair and letting Castiel open his lips and press wet, lush kisses into him, onto his mouth, against his throat and the throb of his pulse. Dean sighs and grinds them together and accidentally knocks his head back against the wall and Castiel laughs softly and kisses the side of his cheek, cups his face and says, 

"Welcome back."


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel goes home with Dean from the party. Okay, in reality Castiel drives Dean home after Castiel asks Dean how many fingers he’s holding up, and Dean says, _seventeen_. He was joking. He’s pretty sure he was joking. They’d made out for fifteen minutes in the alcove and then they’d tried to tuck their shirts back into their pants and go back to the party. Thankfully, Dean is one of those drunks who slowly peels out of their clothes over the course of the night, and everybody knows that about him, so his rumpled shirt didn’t even raise any eyebrows. Dean had another couple of cocktails, feeling giddy about Castiel next to him, the way Castiel’s eyes kept lingering on him like his hands already had, just moments ago. And then they’d bumped into Sam at the bar and Dean finally introduced them. Castiel and Sam had shaken hands and then Sam’s face had gone hilariously still with recognition, and his eyes had landed accusingly on Dean. 

"Nice to meet you," Sam had said to Castiel, and then he’d apologized and dragged Dean away for a second. "Is that-"

"Yeah," Dean says now, trying to get Sam’s iron grip off his bicep. "Jimmy Wonderguy, yeah. Hey, ow, you fucking ox, let go."

"You didn’t bring him here to kill him, did you?" Sam hisses. Dean stares at him.

"Why does everybody think I want to kill him?" Dean says, blankly. "Did I really talk that much shit?"

"Yes," says Sam. 

"I suck," Dean shrugs. "I was wrong, Cas’s great." He hiccups, then looks around and finds he’s lost track of where Castiel was just standing. “Hey, where’d he go?” He finds Castiel again in the hall, talking to Jo. Jo’s smiling widely at something he’s just said. “Hey you,” Dean says, trying to be cool and casual. He puts his arm out to lean on the wall behind Castiel’s shoulders, super suave, but the wall’s too far away, and so he trips a little and flails and ends up with both arms propped against the wall to keep himself from falling over. Castiel puts a hand on his side to steady him, smiling, and Jo laughs so hard she has to sit down. “Vertigo,” Dean says, scowling. “It’s a condition.” 

Some time after that, Castiel drives him home. Dean sits in the passenger seat of that horrible tiny rabbit car with his hands over his face, mumbling about not wanting to be recognized. They go up the stairs and Dean fumbles with the keys for a while and then makes it inside, flips the light on and goes to the fridge. He drinks some water and gets a glass for Castiel and they sit together on the couch talking about the party, about how Castiel actually knows some of the same people Dean does, isn’t it funny how they never met before, and then Dean puts his water glass down on the table and pulls Castiel over him and they kiss and kiss and kiss and it’s so good, it’s so very right and good. Dean feels Castiel hard against his hip, tries to get a hand between them to undo Castiel’s belt, until Castiel pulls off him and smiles and says _later, if you want_ , and then instead of going home he lets Dean get up and tug him to bed. Dean lies in bed in his pajama bottoms with Castiel behind him, warm and snoring after a couple of minutes, and feels kind of grouchy and turned-on but also happy, thrilled that this is happening, still half-hard and aching for it but also exhausted, and by the time he falls asleep Castiel is curled up against his back with his face in Dean’s neck, and Dean’s accepted that this is actually the greatest fucking thing in the universe.

When Dean wakes up he barely even has a headache, just a little twinge that makes him squint against the strong sunlight coming through the blinds. But more interestingly he’s hard for real this time, his hips tucked into Castiel’s and his arm around Castiel’s waist. He doesn’t mean to rub himself a little against the toned swell of Castiel’s backside, curving ludicrously under his boxer shorts like a fucking marble statue of the Greek god of infuriatingly perfect asses, but, well. Dean’s human and Castiel is so warm and smells like Dean’s bed, and when Dean’s hips cant up a little Castiel sighs and grinds himself back, rolling his hips with filthy grace, and then cracks up at Dean because he’s been awake this whole time. “Pretty fucking scandalous for a children’s magician,” Dean says, and gets his ribs pinched. Dean laughs and turns him over and presses sloppy kisses down Castiel’s chest, stopping to lick his nipples as he goes, sucking one into his mouth to bite it gently between his front teeth, rolling the other between his fingers, liking the way it makes Castiel inhale sharply and tugs his fingers through Dean’s hair. “You, um,” Dean says, nosing at Castiel’s thigh. “Can I?” Castiel blinks slowly and then says,

"Yes," and parts his knees a little more. So Dean smiles and kisses the inside of one knee and then mouths his way down to the base of Castiel’s thickening cock, letting it nudge his cheek, smear him a little with a bead of pre-cum under Dean’s eye. Castiel’s watching him, dazed but intent, like Dean’s performing an especially difficult sleight of hand. And then Dean takes him into his mouth and sucks, flattening his tongue against the vein on the underside, licking as he pulls off at the tip. Castiel’s hips jerk up, chasing his mouth, and Castiel makes a soft, helpless noise when Dean opens around him again, sliding him deeper. "Dean," Castiel says. " _Dean_ ,” he begs, and so Dean gives it to him, _wants_ to give him everything, puts Castiel’s hand to the side of his head and lets Castiel slide his dick wetly in and out of Dean’s mouth, his throat, too gently, like he can’t believe Dean is real and this is happening. Castiel trembles and says he’s close and Dean gets up and pulls him a couple of times and Castiel comes across his stomach while Dean leans up and kisses him. Castiel returns the favor, jerking Dean slow at first and then dipping his fingers lower to circle Dean’s rim. Dean babbles his approval of _that_ idea and then comes hard on Castiel’s thigh with one of Castiel’s fingers buried to the knuckle, stroking a slow circle inside him. 

There’s a long boneless time where neither of them want to get up, and so they stay in bed for a while, cooling down, smiling dopily at each other and murmuring total nonsense. Dean rests his face into Castiel’s chest and Castiel rubs his arms and shoulders and then traces the curve of his earlobe, laughing when Dean squirms away from it, sighing with happiness when Dean rolls on top of him and presses open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone.

"Breakfast?" Dean asks, finally, and at last they have a reason to get up and face the day. 

Dean takes a quick shower and Castiel takes a long one, while Dean putters around the kitchen and sends up a quick prayer of thanks to Sam, our brother of perpetual nutrition. Dean comes up with some eggs and a loaf of bread and cinnamon and the last few drops of vanilla extract in the pantry. By the time Castiel comes out, toweling his wet hair, Dean’s flipping over thick slices of french toast in the skillet. Castiel sits at the kitchen island and watches him. Dean serves him up a plate and Castiel tucks in, hungry and appreciative.

"This is so good," he says, around a mouthful. "I haven’t had french toast in- a long time," he says, and takes another enormous bite. Dean gives him another slice and Castiel eats that, too. The satisfied look on his face swells Dean’s ego almost as much as the noises he pulled out of him half an hour ago.

"You got any plans for today?" Dean asks. Castiel looks up and his eyes rake shamelessly across Dean’s bare torso, but then he looks back down at his plate and picks up another forkful of toast.

"Yes," he says. "Otherwise-"

"No, I get it," Dean says, probably too fast. Jesus, look at him, getting worked up about this. They’ve been whatever they are for all of one night. He’s such a mess. "It’s cool, you got stuff. To do."

"I’d like to stay in bed with you all day," Castiel says, "but I have commitments." There’s total honesty in his voice, and the softness in it is too raw for Dean for a second, he has to look away, pretend that he’s concerned about putting the skillet and spatula into the sink. That’s not the kind of thing you just say to somebody right away, that’s not something- people can _get_ you with that, especially when the lines aren’t even drawn yet. Dean knows. He can’t believe that Castiel doesn’t. Or that he doesn’t care. Maybe Castiel’s just got his head screwed on better than Dean does. “Dean,” Castiel says, low, like he can hear Dean’s parade of bad thoughts. Dean makes himself meet Castiel’s eyes. They’re really beautiful. “Would you like to come with me?”

"Come with you where?"

"To the hospital."

"Fuck," Dean says. He gapes at Castiel, looks him up and down. He looks fine, what the fuck. "You- is there-"

"No, no," Castiel says, hurriedly. He shakes his head, smiling a little. "Sorry, I should have been clear. I’m there every other Sunday. Children’s ward."

"Oh," Dean says. "Oh. Wow, okay, yeah. Children’s ward. Uh. Wouldn’t it be weird, me hanging around?"

"I don’t think so," Castiel says.

"I’m not," Dean says. and gestures at himself vaguely. "I’m not," he can’t quite figure out what he wants to say. "I don’t do what you do," he says, at last, trying not to make it sound pathetic. It does anyway. "You know my stuff. I’m not, uh. Super uplifting." Castiel frowns.

"I disagree," he says. "But it’s up to you. I think you could make them happy. I think that’s all that matters."

So Dean puts on a plain button-down shirt and his cleanest pair of jeans and after a minute of staring at himself in the mirror, he puts on the dumbest tie he owns, an ugly thing that he’s probably owned since Sam’s graduation. Castiel smiles at him when he comes out of the bedroom dressed like a nerd: he reels Dean in by the tie and pats the front of his shirt appreciatively and says, “You look good.”

"I look like a dork."

"Suits you, then," says Castiel, and grins when Dean flicks the tie into his face.

 

 

.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been a long, long time since it was just Dean and a deck of cards. Oh, he practices still, basically every day. Goes through various shit just to keep sharp. It’s more a nervous tic than real study: he’s always had to keep his hands busy. 

When he was a kid he used to spend hours and hours out on the boardwalk; Sam stayed at a neighbor’s house after school sometimes, a lady with a boy Sam’s age, playing robots and video games on the other kid’s tv. But Dean got bored easy and he was old enough that nobody cared what he did, so he’d walk miles and miles of the strip, stopping to watch guys with cardboard boxes for tables, doing the cup and ball trick, picking cards from people’s sleeves. Some of the guys would laugh at him trying to mimic them, and some would sigh and take him aside and show him how it was done. He’d sit in the dark of his bedroom later, practicing quietly so that he wouldn’t wake Sam: palming cards and doing fancy shuffles, trying to get it right. It had been kind of amazing to him: Dean, who wasn’t any good in school, whose attention wandered constantly away from earth science and Napoleon, could do the same card trick for hours, never quitting until it was perfect. And pretty soon, it was almost always perfect. Sam was his first audience, and the most adoring one he’d ever have. They used to sit together in their scrubby little back yard and Dean would run through all his tricks, treasuring the way Sam’s eyes would go big as saucers, Sam’s huge and whole-hearted applause. 

When he moved onto the boardwalk for real and got himself a cardboard box of his own, people thought it was cute at first, him being a kid. They used to drop more into his tip jar than the other guys, so every once in a while Dean would get beat up and run off from a particular spot. But he’d come back again later, eye still purpling and hands still quick. He learned how to fight back pretty fast. This was around the same time John stopped going to AA meetings and started up with some old friends, and performed a magic trick of his own: the grocery money kept disappearing. So this is also around the time when Dean started lifting wallets. 

There’s a stretch in juvie there somewhere, Sam going briefly into foster care until Dean got old enough to take him, and a lot of other shit that Dean doesn’t like to think about anymore. So there’s a lot of water under the bridge between now, and the days when it was just him and a pack of cards. And that’s probably plain on his face, because Castiel keeps looking over at him and smiling as they drive.

"Relax," Castiel says, as they pull into a parking spot outside the hospital entrance. He’s wearing the doofiest bow tie Dean’s ever seen in his life, and it’s almost humiliating how much Dean is still attracted to him. This is maybe a karmic punishment for Dean’s secret thoughts about those posters. "They’re going to love you."

Castiel takes him through to reception and it’s amazing how much everybody in the building lights up as soon as they see Castiel’s face. The nurses call him “Jim,” which is hilarious. Dean doesn’t know what he expected- like, for Castiel to give some kind of performance in front of a group, maybe- but instead Castiel just walks through the ward, making his way one at a time to every bedside, talking to each kid in turn, gentle but still kind of serious, still kind of _Castiel_ , treating them all like miniature adults with their own opinions and attitudes, treating them like _people_. Most of them know Castiel, most of them have been here a while. They banter with him like old friends, and he asks them what’s new, remembers all the things they told him last time, who has a baby brother, who has a dog waiting at home, whose favorite is the Cheetah Girls and who loves Phineas and Ferb. He does little tricks with cards and scarves and pulls packets of crayons out of the sleeves of the kids’ hospital gowns; he spends about fifteen minutes making paper nurses with them and then pretends to cut them up, revealing at the end that they’re still perfect, pristine, unharmed. It’s beautiful magic, unhurried, always with a happy ending. Dean’s in awe of it. Castiel introduces Dean to all of them and they smile shyly at him, then gasp and laugh when he tells them to open the bedside drawer to find their card sitting inside. They clap for him, but mostly they want hugs. 

A couple of the kids are older, a little more withdrawn, exhausted by treatments Dean can’t even begin to comprehend. So he sits beside them and just shuffles cards while they watch him, and then a couple of them ask him to teach them, so he does. They’re good students, even if their hands sometimes tremble. He leaves them a couple packs of cards and encourages them to practice, and they say thanks with such genuine feeling that Dean has to go into the washroom and put water on his face for a minute. 

They circle the ward for a few hours, even though it doesn’t seem that long. Pretty soon they’ve got to pack it up, let the kids get some rest. A couple of the younger ones cling to Castiel’s shoulders before he goes, and he just goofs and pretends to dry their faces with his gigantic bow tie, makes them laugh at what a huge dork he is.

They’re on their way out when a nurse catches Castiel, takes him aside for a second to tell him something, off to the other side of the hall where Dean can’t hear. Castiel listens and nods slowly and then pats her hand, still lingering on his arm. The nurse walks off and Castiel comes back to Dean, asking him if he’s hungry, there’s a place not far that has good sandwiches; but there’s something off, now, something sad and slumped in the set of Castiel’s shoulders, a tightness in his face, where there was smiling ease a minute ago. 

"Hey," Dean says, as Castiel’s unlocking the car, kind of robotically. "Did something happen?" Castiel looks up at him, a little bit startled, like he’d thought Dean wouldn’t notice. 

"A patient," he says. "A boy. Steven. Died on Thursday."

"Jesus," Dean says. "Cas, I’m sorry."

"I-" Castiel says, and he smiles, but it’s bitter, kind of fake. "I knew it was coming."

"So what," says Dean, and Castiel’s smile gets a little less forced. Sadder, softer. "It’s still terrible."

"He was here a long time," Castiel says. "But he never lost hope. He always talked about what he was going to do with his life. He was like- he was like my sister."

"Is she-"

"Dead? Yes," Castiel says. "We spent most of her short life in places like this." He opens the car door and slides inside and Dean does the same, climbing into the passenger seat and shutting the door. Castiel doesn’t look at him. "I’m sorry. We can talk about something else."

"No," says Dean. "I mean, yeah, if you want. But you can tell me. I’ll listen."

Castiel turns to look at him and for a second he doesn’t say anything, Castiel just watches his face and Dean watches him. Dean doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, if he did something weird, if Castiel is thinking about dropping his ass off and going to lunch alone now. But Castiel leans across the seats and pulls Dean closer to him and kisses the side of his mouth with incredible tenderness, a kindness Dean thinks just pours out of him in waves. Dean shuts his eyes for a second and tries not to blurt out anything stupid, anything incriminating, to this wonderful person he barely knows.

"Another time," Castiel says then, and lets him go. He’s smiling for real. "But thank you for saying so."

"Yeah," Dean says. He feels stunned by something he can’t put a name to. "No prob."

 

.


	6. Chapter 6

They’ve only been filming for a week and Dean is lying face-down on his sofa on Monday morning, thinking about how hard it would actually be to change his name, disappear, maybe grow a mustache, move to another country and perform as _Jimmy Wonderstache_ , and if Castiel would run away with him and/or let him license that name, since it’s practically infringement.

"Get a grip," Charlie says. She’s sitting on his legs, spooning ice cream straight out of a pint. She has absolutely no personal rules about what is breakfast food and what isn’t, which Dean finds slightly terrifying. Charlie does whatever she pleases all the time. Dean kind of wants her to teach him how. "You’re gonna get through this."

The two-hour special has gained sponsors like an avalanche and now it’s ballooned into a six-part miniseries to air in the fall, with each person getting a focus episode before the big performance. Charlie got him more money for that, which Dean has no complaints about. Sam’s going to state school on his scholarship but Dean likes to send him cash for books, clothes, booze, even if he knows Sam’s gonna blow some of it on organic cereal. Hey, he doesn’t give him money just to tell him what to do with it. Dean’s actually pretty proud that his brother’s nothing like he was at that age. The money thing is great, it’s the crazy invasive shit the producers want, the weird scenarios they want to put them all in, that’s driving Dean slowly up the wall. Dean doesn’t give a shit about going out to clubs with other magicians, unless they’re his actual friends, but he guesses that a contract is a contract. They’ve been filming party scenes the last three nights and even though he hasn’t been trying to keep up with the rest of them, Dean’s whole body feels like a used handtowel that’s been hung out to dry in a hurricane. 

"Bllurpf," Dean says, from inside his sofa cushions. Charlie pats the back of his head.

"Call’s at ten-thirty." She gets up and puts the ice cream back in the freezer, puts her spoon into Dean’s sink, then comes over and paddles him on the back with a pillow. "Come on, up and at ‘em, tiger."

Today they want them to do some street magic stuff, setting up little crowd scenes and having them each take turns. Dean’s been thinking a lot about what he wants to do, and in the end he decides to do an everlasting soda and some card stuff, simple close-up things that he’s practiced a hundred thousand times, that he knows he’s quick enough with and he can charm his way through, make people smile. He did the can thing a couple weeks ago at the hospital and the kids went nuts for it, climbed into his lap and demanded he show them how it worked, step-by-step, while Castiel laughed at his flimsy evasions about trade secrecy. So, it feels right. He’s got his stuff ready and now they’re just waiting for the shots to get set up. The other people from the special are waiting, too. Next to Dean there’s Tessa, who Dean likes a lot, a petite girl with about a billion tattoos and fifteen piercings that Dean can see, who seemed brutally sarcastic at first but is actually pretty sweet. There’s Victor, who’s a little bit older than the rest of them, a true professional: Dean’s seen him at Showcase a couple of times and his act is old-school, lots of patter and flair, solid stuff. And then there’s Devon. Devon is currently sitting on the back of a bench flicking his cigarette butt at a bunch of seagulls, trying to get one of them to eat it by mistake. Apparently, he’s going to do a Criss Angel trick with a bunch of razorblades for the boardwalk audience. Dean’s trying really hard not to hate his fucking guts. 

The tricks go smoothly, one after the other: Tessa gets herself out of a pair of cuffs and manages to get somebody else caught inside them at the same time, getting a big laugh from the guy’s friends. Victor charms the living shit out of a couple of ladies who basically swoon into his arms when he picks them a pair of queens. Devon manages not to kill anyone, though a couple of people look like they’re gonna hurl. And Dean’s tricks work perfectly, even by his pretty harsh personal standards. The grins and applause he gets feel real, and he’s coming down off a little bit of a high by the time filming’s wrapping up for the day. 

He texts Castiel that he’s finishing up, and Castiel says he can swing by to drive him home if Dean wants, if Charlie drove him over in the morning and he doesn’t have his car. Dean grins down at his phone and texts him to hurry up. Castiel knows Dean’s been feeling like a sad dirty sock all weekend, and they haven’t seen each other for more than a rushed lunch since Friday. He could use a night in with some take-out and Castiel wrapped around him on the couch, warm and lazy. It sounds like heaven.

Dean talks to the techs for a few minutes and then gets pulled into a brief production meeting for the end of the week’s stunt shoot; they hand him some waivers that they obviously want him to sign right away, but he refuses, saying he’s got to run them by Charlie first, and they sigh and agree and let him go. So now he’s just sitting by the crew van, shooting the shit with Tessa and Victor, waiting for Cas to text him that he’s here and ready. 

"Wow," Devon says, somewhere behind them. "Check out that shitmobile."

Dean turns around and then he sees it, the thing Devon’s pointing at, Castiel’s goofy rabbit car parked on the curb a block or so away. He’s not inside it. And just like magic the phone in Dean’s hand goes off: _I’m here. Getting a coffee around the corner. Want one?_ “Looks like the fuckin’ circus is in town,” Devon says, and laughs out loud at his own joke. Dean feels a rush of anger that’s not all for Devon. 

"I think it’s cute," says Tessa.

"So do I," Dean says, a little too loudly, and gets up while they stare at him. "See you guys." He gives them a wave and walks towards the car, sliding his phone into his pocket. He finds Castiel standing in front of Beach Bums Coffee Company, checking his own phone for messages. "Hey," says Dean. Castiel glances over at him and his face just lights up, like Dean is the greatest thing in the universe, like Dean just exists to make his day.

Like Dean isn’t the kind of person who used to say shitty things about Castiel’s car, Castiel’s magic, Castiel’s clothes and Castiel’s calling, like Dean isn’t basically a slightly older and less jittery version of that dirtbag Devon. Dean can barely look at him right now. But Castiel is already steering him towards the car, putting a coffee into his hands because of course he knew Dean would want a half-caf latte after a long day. He drives Dean home and they sit on the couch with lo mein and lagers and Dean shows him _Blazing Saddles_ because they’re still working their way through Mel Brooks, with some stops along the way lately for action classics. Castiel’s never even seen _Die Hard 2_.

"They made a second one?" Castiel asks, and Dean just groans and closes his eyes.

He can’t fall asleep at first, even with Castiel a warm weight against his back, Castiel’s slow breath on the back of his spine, their hands tangled together on Dean’s belly. He doesn’t know why he gets like this, why he gets so fucking angry at people but mostly at himself, why he can’t ever let those thoughts go once he thinks them. Doesn’t know what the fuck Castiel would want with him, somebody so good and so effortlessly kind to everyone, what he’d be doing with Dean and Dean’s gross past and weird moods. Dean’s not stupid enough to say that stuff out loud to Castiel, if Castiel hasn’t clued in to that shit yet then _Dean’s_ not going to be the one to tell him and maybe ruin it. But as a result sometimes he just lies here and feels afraid. Afraid of not having this anymore, because God knows Dean likes it, is getting used to it, is starting to feel like he needs it. 

And he is still moping in a quiet, shitty way the next morning, even when Castiel takes him to the McDonald’s drive-thru for breakfast on his way to filming, because he knows Dean sometimes thrives on grease when he’s feeling low or stressed. Dean eats two egg mcmuffins and when he kisses Castiel goodbye he leaves a little shiny mark on his cheek that Castiel has to wipe away, smiling. He tells Dean to have a great day and Dean thinks to himself, _I love you, oh my God I love you_ , so desperately and hungrily that he almost can’t breathe.

"See you later," he says out loud and feels like a fucking coward, like a thief who is stealing Castiel’s time and giving nothing back, keeping everything good for himself.

And it’s not an excuse, that feeling. But it is part of the reason why things go so horribly wrong when he gets to the set and Devon corners him on the sidewalk and smirks and says, _wow, so, you’re fucking Jimmy Wonderclown_?

It takes three techs to pull them apart and Charlie has to pick Dean up, has to leave her office in the middle of the day and come get him like he’s a fucking grade-schooler. She drives him back to his apartment and tells him frankly how lucky he is that Devon’s decided not to press charges even though Dean practically rearranged his face landscape, that production hasn’t chosen to drop him yet, but they still could, they’ll have to wait and see, what the fuck was Dean thinking? Dean sits silently and accepts all of it, except for the ice pack Charlie tries to hold against his temple. He bats her away and tells her she should go back to work, she’s got other clients who are more important than he is. Charlie frowns and then kisses the top of his head, on one of the few parts that didn’t thunk against cement.

"Wonderstache," she says, gently. "When are you gonna learn? Nobody’s actually more important than you." She sits next to him and puts on TLC and makes him watch _Say Yes to the Dress_ with her as punishment, even though she knows he kind of enjoys it.

That night he ignores two texts and a call from Castiel, but he can’t ignore it when Castiel just knocks on his door and says,

"Dean?" against it. Dean sighs and mutes the tv and gets up. He opens the door and there’s Castiel. He doesn’t look mad. He looks like he’s been scared about something. "Charlie called me," he says. "She thought-"

"I love you," Dean blurts out. Castiel stares at him silently and Dean wonders if this is it, if Castiel is going to turn around and walk down the hall and down the stairs and away forever, if he’s gonna disappear like people do. He doesn’t. He comes forward into Dean’s apartment and takes Dean in his arms, holds him around his neck and cradles Dean’s bruised head and kisses the side of his face. “I love you,” Dean repeats, into the meat of Castiel’s shoulder. His face feels hot and his eyes sting, he feels like a fucking baby but he can’t stop saying it, now that he’s started. “I love you, I’m in love-“

Castiel kisses the words out of his mouth and then he gives them back to Dean; he holds them in his mouth and then presses them into Dean’s skin, writes it across him like Dean is paper and he is ink. And right then- at least for a little while, at least for now- Dean feels safe and perfect, Dean is not afraid.

 

 

.


	7. Chapter 7

The meeting with the producers doesn’t go as badly as it could. For one thing, two-thirds of the staff already quietly hate Devon’s attitude. The other third loves ratings more than human decency.

"I’m not saying you should hit him again," one of them says to Dean. "But if you do, make sure it’s on camera."

"Uh," says Dean.

"It’s a joke, kid!" the guy says, and pats Dean’s cheek. But then later he corners Dean in the craft services line and whispers, " _It wasn’t a joke_ ,” and steals a roll and leaves.

It’s Devon himself who provides the biggest surprise. He avoids Dean for most of the rest of filming, interacting sullenly whenever they’re forced to for group scenes. He doesn’t say a fucking thing about Castiel anymore- that subject seems to have been wiped entirely off the map- but he’s still a whiny, cocky mess most of the time. For the sake of Dean’s dignity and sanity Dean tries to just tune him out. And when he does, he finally realizes what the fuck he was missing about the kid. Devon is fucking terrified. Not of Dean, even though he probably should be. But of everything else: of the cameras, the other more experienced magicians, of fucking up and getting kicked off. Dean didn’t know this until he started paying attention, but Devon was voted onto the show by some internet poll, not called up for personally by a studio exec. He hasn’t got friends in the business like all the rest of them do: just a youtube following. And hey, Dean loves his own youtube following, but he knows it can’t always keep you warm at night. 

Most importantly- at least to Dean, at the moment- the kid doesn’t actually suck. Some of his flashy tricks do, but who the fuck is Dean to talk: Dean regularly gets dipped shirtless into a fucking shark tank. You have to make your mark somehow, even if videos of said mark would embarrass you at your funeral. Dean tries to watch him more closely, see what he’s really good at, and finds that although Devon’s patter sucks, it’s a lot of weirdly aggressive trash talking, the kid is actually super quick and he’s got absurdly delicate, graceful hands that are pretty pleasant to watch in action. Dean wants to say something to him, something encouraging. He thinks about what kind of advice he’d have taken half a dozen years ago, when things were starting to heat up for him, and realizes: probably none. He was a jackass at twenty-one-ish. He still kind of is, at least in terms of having shitty, self-sabotaging impulses. And strangely that thought slides everything into place. Dean corners Devon behind the crew van one afternoon and says,

"Hey, fuckface." Dean folds his arms across his chest and Devon swallows hard, looks around and sees they’re alone, and then gives Dean what he obviously hopes is an intimidating scowl. 

"You want to go again?" Devon says, puffing himself up like a threatened cat. Now that Dean’s seen through the bullshit, pulled down the veil, it’s almost hilarious.

"No," he says. "I want you to calm down." Devon stares at him suspiciously. "You made it here. And believe it or not, you deserve to be here. So stop being so fucking difficult to everybody," Dean says, "and just enjoy it."

"Fuck you," says Devon, which is probably what Dean would have said.

"Yeah, right, fuck me," says Dean. "Just think about it. Nobody’s your enemy here, but you."

Dean leaves him be after that. He’s said his piece, he’s not going to bend over backwards to make the kid feel fucking special. No friendship bracelets are going to get braided here. But after another few days of relative calm Devon starts talking to him more than the others, even asks him a couple of questions about a trick he’s working on. And so Dean caves and shows him one of his new favorites, a really beautiful card flip that looks like a million bucks but is mind-boggling in its simplicity. Devon takes to it after a few tries and asks Dean how the fuck he came up with something so good. “I didn’t,” Dean says, smugly. “Jimmy Wonderclown did.” And Devon looks satisfyingly ashamed. 

After filming wraps Dean takes everybody to Showcase, introduces them around to Benny and Andrea- Victor already knows them, knows everybody, and Benny’s fucking thrilled to see him- and then Dean gets cheerfully drunk and spends half the night just sitting in a corner booth with his arm around Castiel’s back and his eyes closed while the room spins a little and Castiel talks to Tessa about her work with women’s shelters, the performance workshops and outreach she’s been doing.

"It’s an amazing confidence builder for my students," she says, over the music, and Castiel asks her something about grant writing, and frankly after that Dean leaves his body for a little while and drifts along the old-fashioned plaster ceiling, letting his eyes wander around the sparkling glass chandeliers, all the classy old shit that Andrea insisted they keep after the renovations. God, Dean really loves this place. Really loves being here. Can’t believe that after everything, all the things he’s done and said, he gets to sit here like this and just be happy, be tired and happy and loved. 

Castiel’s sort of psychic, so right around then he leans over and kisses Dean’s cheek and brings him back to earth.

"You want to go home?" Castiel murmurs, against his ear. 

"I am home," Dean says, and squeezes his shoulder. He might not be making sense, but it feels like he is. Kind of. "I am home."

Instead of leaving they just go wander around alone backstage, Dean giggling at everything Castiel says and Castiel stopping him every few feet to kiss him. Castiel pushes him into a wall and sucks on his throat a little and they slide down into an old box of props. Dean rummages through it and puts a top hat on while Castiel ties a feather boa around his own neck. Dean takes the hat off, reaches inside, and finds a wrinkled old bouquet of fake flowers spring-loaded in the lining. He pops it up and holds it out to Castiel. “Ta-da.” Castiel takes them and pretends pretty convincingly that they smell delightful, when in reality they probably smell like mildew and disappointment. But somehow Castiel makes Dean believe the strangest things. Like, that Dean is amazing and good. That Dean makes Castiel happy, happier than anyone ever has, that he makes Castiel believe in impossible things, too.

"You really do," Castiel says, and Dean realizes he’s been talking out loud. 

"Oh," Dean says. "Yeah?"

"Yes," says Castiel. He puts his hands to Dean’s face and smiles at him, love leaking out of his eyes like the light from a candle. God willing, Dean is going to warm himself on that for the rest of his life. "You’re magic."

"Oh my God," Dean says. "A pun."

"Children’s entertainer," Castiel reminds him, and kisses him until Dean sees nothing but stars. 

 

 

.


End file.
